Westward, Tally Ho! Read online

  Guthrie nodded absently. He looked outside, but not at anything in particular. Somehow, by his expression, Clarence could tell that Santa Fe was not their ultimate destination.

  "Where are we going, Guthrie?" he demanded.

  "Virginia City, sir. To find my daughter."

  Clarence felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He had tried not to pry into the old butler's affairs for so long that now, when confronted with the truth, it came as something of a shock. Virginia City? Daughter?

  "Wha-haa?" was all he found himself able to articulate.

  "What, sir?" Guthrie turned from the window. He acted as if nothing were amiss, as though everything had been clear to everyone concerned from the very start.

  "Wha-haa?" Clarence reiterated.

  Just then the whistle blew fiercely, and the train came to a slow, shrieking halt at the station.

  "Here we are, sir." Guthrie picked up his luggage and beckoned Clarence to do likewise. "Come along, Master Clarence."

  Perplexed and bewildered, but trying not to look it, Clarence grabbed hold of his baggage and followed Guthrie down the empty aisle. "Where exactly are we going, old boy?"

  "I shall explain it all once we find a suitable hotel, sir. For now, please follow me."

  They exited the rear of the coach and passed by the conductor and his burly assistant.

  "Thank you for a delightful trip," Guthrie said politely, shaking their hands in turn.

  "I wouldn't stay too long in town, old man," the burly tobacco-chewing (and spitting) American growled low so that only Guthrie could hear. By the way he crushed the butler's hand in his grip, it was obvious he'd not forgotten their little incident a few days earlier. "You might end up havin' a nasty accident or somethin'."

  Guthrie's expression of cordiality did not falter. "Good day."

  Keeping his eyes to himself, Clarence did his best to follow close behind Guthrie, and he'd almost passed by the big American when—

  "I'll find you, Englishter," the man hissed. "You need that lesson." He pounded his fist into an equally meaty palm.

  "G-good day." Clarence hurried after Guthrie, and once they were far enough out of earshot, he gasped, "I do believe that fellow intends to harm us, old boy!"

  "Likely, sir." Guthrie strode ahead, once again seeming to know exactly where he was going. "But we shall not allow it."

  Chapter 11

  Santa Fe was one of the bigger towns in the New Mexico territory, but that wasn't saying much. Train workers flocked to the only hotel, the café, and the two saloons with gambling and booze on their minds. Trail herds often passed through, filling the street with lowing cattle, drunken hollers, raucous fights, and occasional gunshots—on the hour, every hour, and at any point in between. Drifters had a tendency to drift right on by. That was the spirit of the town: just passing through. And always at home in the town, always there to welcome any weary traveler, were the regulars: the smiling girls at Madam Carson's, the conniving card sharks in the saloons, the greedy hotel clerk, and the mum bartenders who kept to themselves, mostly. Santa Fe was not a nice town; but then again, it didn't pretend to be.

  Leading north from the train station—a plank shack sitting alongside the tracks where they ran out into the sun-scorched earth—the only street in town (more of a wide, dusty path than the cobblestoned variety Clarence was accustomed to) lay flanked by clapboard buildings built from fresh timber, once upon a time. Now they stood bleached by the sun and, in spots, infested with termites. The Santa Fe Royale, a two-story hotel, sat on the west side of the street. Across from it stood the café; one could only hope its rundown appearance was no reflection on the food served inside. Next to the Royale, a crowded saloon opened its doors to the general public from dawn until way after dusk, and across from it lay a popular house of ill-repute where young women lounged about with plenty of flesh exposed, winking at any fellow who passed their way. From there, zigzagging side to side across the street, one found a livery stable, a small mercantile, a dilapidated and empty jailhouse, another saloon, a bank that looked more like a fortress, and, at the far end of town, a makeshift firing range.

  Clarence and Guthrie made their way through the busy street to the Royale and set their luggage on the plank sidewalk outside. Giving the town a cursory glance, Clarence retrieved his handkerchief and wiped at the grime on his face—a natural consequence of their dusty environment meeting his own perspiration.

  "Quite warm here, eh?" Clarence squinted up at the scorching sun as dribbles of perspiration trembled down the back of his collar.

  Guthrie nodded. Then he turned and entered the hotel, leaving their baggage on the front stoop for now.

  "I say, wait for me, old boy!" Hugging his valise, Clarence jogged after him.

  The inside of the place looked no better than its outside. The floor creaked beneath their shoes, cobwebs adorned most of the dim corners, and the staircase leading upstairs looked as if it could very well endanger their lives. As for the foyer, it reeked of stale sweat—not surprising, considering the temperature.

  "Pardon me, sir." Guthrie approached the clerk's desk. "I should like to inquire concerning the availability of a room in your fine establishment."

  The clerk—a short, obese fellow with flabby arms and a belly protruding through his stained undershirt—chewed a wad of tobacco that filled his left cheek and dribbled brownish juice into his scraggly white beard.

  "What'd you say?" he drawled, scratching at a fly on his mostly hairless head. By all appearances, he was unsure what to make of the two gentlemen standing before him.

  "A room, sir. We would like a room," Guthrie rephrased his request.

  "Heh, who wouldn't? I've got a dozen fellers hot off that train that'll be needin' rooms 'til their rattler gets hitched back eastwards. You'll hafta make it worth my while iffin you want me to give you a room instead of them—seein' how they're the ones who make this town tick and all!"

  Guthrie seemed to understand the clerk, while Clarence felt as though he were hearing a foreign language spoken for the very first time.

  "Two days," Guthrie said. "How much?"

  "A buck each should about cover it." The clerk licked his chapped lips with a hungry flick of his tongue and grinned, baring obscenely yellow teeth.

  "A what?" Clarence asked.

  "A buck," the clerk repeated.

  "Similar to a pound, sir," Guthrie explained.

  "A pound?" Clarence cried, appalled. "To stay in this hovel? It's highway robbery!"

  "I've got my livin' to make, same as anybody else. Gimme the money or git!"

  Clarence scowled but said nothing more. He'd made his point.

  "Here you are," Guthrie said as he handed over two English pounds.

  The clerk chuckled greedily—then frowned all of a sudden. "Hey now, wait a minute. What the hell is this?"

  "English currency, sir," Guthrie said.

  "Bah! Take it back," the clerk snarled, shoving it into Guthrie's hand.

  "But according to the current exchange rate, it is worth more than—"

  "Not to me, it ain't!" With a vengeance, the clerk spat a stream of tobacco juice into a nearby canister. Some of the residue clung to his beard. "Now you gimme some real American currency, or no room fer you!"

  "Very well," Guthrie said coolly. "If you would direct us to the nearest financial institution—"

  "Huh?"

  "Where is your bank?" Clarence tried a more direct approach.

  "That's right, speak English." The clerk snorted, glaring up at the butler. "Down the street, just past the whorehouse. But don't expect me to hold no room with yer name on it!"

  "We shall return." Guthrie stepped outside.

  "Dumb Englishters," the clerk spat, and more tobacco juice spilled into his beard.

  Chapter 12

  Once outside, the two Englishmen found themselves faced with an unexpected predicament.

  "Our-our luggage..." Clarence gasped.

  "Gone, sir."
Guthrie surveyed the street. "We must find someone who witnessed the robbery. Then we'll hunt down the fugitive and respectfully coerce him to return our belongings."

  "What if he doesn't comply, old boy?" Clarence hugged his valise tightly, so very glad that he'd held onto it.

  Guthrie's eyes continued to scan the street from left to right and back again. "If he does not listen to reason, Master Clarence, then we may have to resort to force. Ah," he nodded, gesturing toward the girls in front of the whorehouse. "Witnesses, sir."

  "Oh, good heavens." Clarence swallowed nervously as he followed his butler across the street toward the loose-looking women. "If my mother were to ever find out about this..."

  The girls noticed them right away and started whistling and winking suggestively.

  "I may just faint," Clarence gasped, his knees loose in their sockets.

  "Courage, sir," said Guthrie.

  The women pounced on them like hungry cats on idiot mice as soon as the Englishmen were within a few yards. Cooing and whispering into their ears, the women bumped into them and tugged at their waistcoats, all the while drawing them toward the front door of their establishment.

  "Please, ladies, I must—please—" Guthrie tried to halt them, but he was outnumbered four to one, and they didn't seem to notice that he was advanced in years. "Ladies, I must ask you—"

  "Help!" Clarence hollered, and the women laughed out loud. "Let me go!" Then a sudden thought—brilliant, he later had to admit—came to him: "We have no bucks!"

  The women halted in their tracks, eyeing the Englishmen with sudden suspicion.

  Adjusting his collar and waistcoat, Clarence explained, "We hail from England, you see, and we carry only the Queen's currency." He tried to catch his breath, distancing himself from the ladies who'd been all over him a moment ago. "We were on our way to the bank to acquire your American dollars in exchange, when we found that our luggage had been stolen."

  "So what're you sayin', boy?" asked the tallest of the lot, a blonde with an amazing hourglass figure. "You want us to take credit?" She giggled and stepped close to him as she fingered the black lace on her scarlet bodice.

  "Wha-haa?" he replied hoarsely, his eyes bulging as she backed him up against a hitching post.

  "No, Miss," Guthrie interrupted her mid-advance, "but we would appreciate it if you could help us. Did you happen to see the fugitive who stole our belongings?"

  "Mmm," she murmured, her blue-eyed gaze riveted on Clarence as she pressed into him and reached up to touch his cheek. "Mmmm."

  Clarence felt as though he might seriously pass out. His eyes kept crossing and refocusing as the woman breathed into his face, her breath warm and sweet—

  "Please, Miss, if you've seen anything," Guthrie said.

  "Ain't seen nothin'." She turned from Clarence and faced the butler in a single movement. "And neither have my girls." With a lingering glance at Clarence, she turned away and sauntered inside. Shrugging mutely, the other women followed her, leaving the two Englishmen alone out front.

  Guthrie remained silent for a few moments. Then, without a word, he marched up the street, his jaw set firmly.

  "Where to now, old boy?" Clarence asked, blinking as he collected himself.

  "The bank, sir. It appears that one requires money for information in this town."

  "Oh yes, quite right. The bank. I had almost forgotten…"

  Chapter 13

  The two Englishmen acquired a reasonable exchange for a third of their British currency at the bank without incident, returned to the hotel where the grumbling, grimy clerk relinquished a room for two days at double the price he originally quoted them, and then they returned to the house of ill repute. After a few minutes of politely fighting off the girls' advances at the front door, Guthrie and Clarence found themselves led through the plush, lamp-lit interior to the manager's office.

  "Well-well," sighed the blonde with the awe-inspiring figure, resting her hands on Clarence's chest as soon as he'd stepped through her door. "Back so soon?" Without another word, she wrapped her arms around his neck and gave him a slow, alluring kiss that lasted well over a minute. Or so it seemed to Clarence, who could count on one hand the times he'd been kissed, yet never before by a woman as gorgeous as this.

  "He is not accustomed to women of your particular...talents, I'm afraid," Guthrie explained as Clarence collapsed to the floor in a dead faint.

  The woman nodded sheepishly, eyeing the young man at her feet. "I should've gone easy on 'im, I suppose."

  "Now as to the reason for our prompt return, Miss—"

  "Right. Your luggage." She nodded to the girl at the door who shut it, leaving the madam alone with her guests. "This information will cost you, Gramps." She leaned back against her desk and shimmied atop it, giving him a direct look.

  "Yes, Miss—"

  "Aw, quit that Miss stuff, will you? The name's Kate. Kate Carson."

  Guthrie gave her a polite nod. "Walter Guthrie."

  "Mmm." She seemed to like the name. "Sit down, will you Walter?" She pointed with the toe of her polished shoe at the armchair opposite her.

  "Very well." Guthrie seated himself stiffly. "Now then," he said, clearing his throat under the woman's gaze. "I am willing to offer two dollars for information as to the whereabouts—"

  "Two bucks?" she asked with genuine surprise. Then she chuckled. "Sure." She took the crisp bills he handed to her and folded them. "You'll find your stuff over at the mercantile, Walter. Ol' Buckeye will most likely be sellin' everything you own at double what it's worth, the varmint." She winked at Guthrie as she tucked the bills into her cleavage. "But you tell 'im Kate sent you, and he won't give you no trouble."

  Guthrie stood. "Thank you, Miss Carson." He extended his hand to her. With an uncertain look in her eyes, she took it. "You've been an invaluable help to us."

  "Kate," she corrected him.

  "Kate." With a polite nod, he reached down to hoist Clarence onto his shoulder in a fireman's carry, and then headed for the door.

  "Walter—" she halted him. Sliding off the desk, she came to his side and retrieved the two bucks he'd given her. "You need friends in a town like Santa Fe." She held his gaze as she slipped the bills into the pocket of his waistcoat. "Count me as one, will you?"

  Guthrie almost smiled as he said, "We shall."

  Leaving Clarence at the hotel to rest and recover, Guthrie made his way down the street to the mercantile where, upon entering, he instantly recognized both his and his master's personal belongings. As Kate Carson had predicted, the items were already for sale on various tables, labeled as being Imported from Europe.

  "Howdy there, stranger! What can I do you for?"

  A stocky, bearded, sun-burned fellow emerged from the back room. One look at him was all Guthrie needed to know this was the "Buckeye" Miss Carson had referred to. Dressed in deerskins and wearing a dead raccoon on his head—its tail wagging with every movement he made—he looked as if he fancied himself an Indian trader on the wild frontier.

  "Are you Buckeye?"

  "Yessiree I am!" He slammed his full weight palms-down onto the counter. "Ain't nobody else 'round here to claim that handle." He paused, then broke into a sudden fit of laughter.

  "I have just come from Kate Carson's—"

  "Carson?" The man whooped abruptly. "Ain't she just about the finest-lookin' woman you ever did see? I'm tellin' you, stranger, soon as I've got me enough cash saved up, I'm headin' right on over to see her and—"

  "She said you might be able to assist me," Guthrie coolly interrupted, narrowing his gaze.

  Buckeye frowned. "Assist you how, exactly?"

  "You see, Mr. Buckeye, I seem to have misplaced my luggage. It appears to have been stolen." He let that sink in for a moment. Then he gestured at the other items for sale. "And it also appears that you have more than enough merchandise to compensate for my loss. Wouldn't you agree?"

  Beneath the fur of his raccoon cap, the man's eyes darted side to side, and
he started to fidget. His jaw muscle twitched, and his thick fingers trembled on the countertop. Licking his lips, he eventually managed, "She said I'd help you out, huh?"

  Guthrie nodded.

  "Uh-huh." Buckeye nodded slowly as he thought things over. "Okay, stranger. Any friend of Carson is a friend of mine. Take whatever you want," he said brightly. A sudden change in mood had overcome him. "You goin' on a trip? Then you'll need good ridin' gear and strong pants…" He was off on his selling spiel, pointing here and there to everything in the store—but not at the merchandise which had been imported from Europe. "Need a saddle? How 'bout a hat? Everybody needs a good hat!"

  "This is quite generous of you, sir," Guthrie remarked with a knowing look.

  Buckeye shrugged. "Hell, I just do what Carson says, stranger. If I'm ever gonna get my chance with her, I gotta stay on her good side, right? Not that she has a bad side, if you know what I mean!"

  Guthrie did not reply. Instead, he turned toward the door and called over his shoulder, "I shall return in an hour. Please have everything ready."

  "Yessiree, stranger!"

  The door swung shut behind the Englishman, and as it did, Buckeye's jovial expression dropped away, hardening into something altogether different. His gaze rested on the cold steel of a shotgun on display.

  "I'll be ready for you, stranger," he growled.

  Chapter 14

  Guthrie spoke with the man at the livery stable and reserved the horses he and Clarence would need for their journey. Then he returned to the hotel to find Clarence quite unimpressed with the condition of their room. The lopsided beds were plagued with groaning springs and sported bedposts chiseled with obscenities. The only window overlooked the street below but couldn't be opened and sat caked in dust. The walls were stained by unknown substances; the ceiling plaster had bullet holes in it; and the floor creaked so badly that Clarence was too nervous to walk across it, thinking he might fall through to the room below.